Chapter Fifty
Christopher’s last evening in camp was a special night.
Lizabetha and her host of silly adolescent friends sang a song in his honor and he applauded graciously at the end of the warbled tune.
Simon, a poet at heart, said a special prose he had made up about the Defender and Christopher hid a smile as the boy told of greatly exaggerated exploits.
When the boy came to a part where Christopher single-handedly captured a thousand Muslim soldiers, it was all he could do to keep from bursting out in laughter.
But he was nonetheless touched by the show of respect from these people whom he had come to know over the past few months, and he shared a stew of venison and early carrots with Rob privately.
The two of them sat in the doorway to his hut, watching the rest of the camp cavort around the fire and entertain themselves.
The forest around them was dark and silent as they finished the last of the stew.
“What now, baron?” Rob wanted to know.
Christopher sat down his bowl. “I return home and pray I still have a home to return to.”
Rob watched him for a moment. “You are worried about your wife?”
“More than anything,” Christopher replied. “She’s been a widow nearly three months now, a wealthy widow at that, and it is difficult to say what’s happened in my absence.”
“I am truly sorry we could not send word of your whereabouts,” Rob said. “I hope you understand I simply could not risk the well-being of everyone in camp.”
Christopher waved him off. “I understand only too well, my lord, and your apologies are unnecessary. We all must do what we think is best, and even though I am not nearly in prime health, I must go home.”
Rob nodded, taking a drink of stolen wine. “I wish I could go home.”
Christopher looked at him, the faint firelight reflecting off his young face. “Someday you will. I swear it. And I shall take great delight in ridding your keep of the prince.”
Rob grinned. “He seems to be rather fond of it, and Nottingham, I am told.”
Christopher nodded in agreement. “After my affairs at home are settled, I promise you that I will seek Richard out and plead your case.”
“I am loyal to Richard,” Rob said. “And to you, Defender, whether or not you regain my keep. But until I know that Richard won’t put a noose around my neck if I show myself, I would just as soon stay to Sherwood. I am rather fond of the place.”
Christopher looked about him. “I had heard this place was haunted as a boy.”
“Haunted with thieves and rabble,” Rob snickered. “And with an earl with no lands.”
“John had no legal right to declare you an outlaw,” Christopher said firmly. “You were defending what was yours.”
Rob shrugged. “That may have well been true then, but he has every right now. I have been stealing from his vassals for quite some time now and that, my friend, makes me an outlaw in the eyes of everyone.”
“That may be true, my lord, but I shall still plead your case to Richard, and our king always listens to me,” Christopher said.
Rob tried not to sound too hopeful. “We can only pray,” he said quietly, then picked up the bowls. “Well, I am feeling fatigued this night. I shall see you off on the morrow.”
“My thanks, Lord Robin of the Hood,” Christopher stood up, too. “Were it not for you, I would not be alive, and I owe you my life.”
“No, you do not,” Rob said with a faint grin. “What you have done and will continue to do more than makes up for what Marianne did for you. God must have been watching out for both of us that day when He brought you to us.”
Christopher nodded, watching the young lord traipse back across the compound. He turned away, feeling his exhaustion but not sure if his excitement would allow him to sleep.
He stretched out across his pallet, his mind roaming to Dustin as it always did at night, remembering the smell of her skin, the feel of her hair, thinking that within six days he would be at her side.
It was almost too much to bear, as if tempting a starving man with food not quite within his reach.
His ache, his longing, was consuming him, but eventually he drifted off to sleep.
He was awakened that night by an unearthly howl and immediately he was up, feeling the surge of adrenalin in his veins. His breeches were barely fastened when Rob came barging into his hut.
“Raiders, Chris,” he said breathlessly.
Christopher yanked on his last boot and clutched his sword. “Raiders?”
Rob simply nodded and rushed out with Christopher on his heels. At the far end of the camp, mailed men on horses were bearing down with torches in hand. The shouting, the noise that resulted from their appearance was frightening.
But Christopher saw them immediately for what they were, and anger swept him. “Those are no raiders, Rob, they are John’s forces,” he said quickly. “Get Simon and Marianne into the woods. Hurry.”
Rob, customary arrow pack slung over his left shoulder, disappeared into the camp and Christopher quickly mapped out a strategy.
The soldiers were already beginning to burn and kill, moving through the village like a plague.
He raced back inside his hut and grabbed everything he had come with, his tunic, his armor, his weapon and his scabbard.
He knew the hut would be burned and he did not want to lose his possessions, and with his arms full he ducked back outside and made a dash for the woods.
Nearly half the village was burned before he made another appearance.
He emerged from the trees dressed to the hilt for battle; his armor secured and his stained tunic announcing just who in the devil he was.
There was no mistaking Christopher’s banner, for it was one of the most recognizable in England.
Dark blue and gold told everyone that this warrior was loyal to Richard.
Even though he wasn’t mounted, he was a hell of an imposing sight. He marched straight up to the first mounted soldier and deftly disarmed the man before yanking him clear of his steed. As the fool lay dazed on the ground, Christopher put the tip of his sword against the man’s neck.
“Return to your commander,” he said with deadly authority “Tell him to cease this raid by command of the Defender of the Realm, or he shall suffer at my hands personally.”
The soldier snorted and blinked his eyes, frozen on the ground. “The Defender of the Realm is dead. Killed in battle three months ago. Everyone knows that.”
“Have you ever seen the man?” Christopher asked.
“Aye, I have.” the soldier said indignantly. “Tall bastard with blond hair and….”
Christopher ripped off his helmet, fixing the man in the eye. After a moment, the soldier’s eyes widened and his mouth hung open.
“It is you,” he gasped with fear and awe. “But they said…said you were dead. How is it you are here?”
Christopher jabbed him in the neck to stop him from talking anymore. “Aye, it is me, and know I mean what I say. Return to your commander and tell him the Defender of the Realm is back from the dead. You will leave this place.”
“But you defend outlaws,” the soldier snapped. “These scabs continue to commit crimes against the crown.”
“Against John, you mean,” Christopher replied icily. “These people are no outlaws in the eyes of our king, I assure you. Go now, before I change my mind and remove your head from your body.”
He backed off and the soldier rolled to his knees, regaining his shaky feet.
Christopher corralled the man’s big-boned war horse and ripped off the green and black colors.
He then swung himself astride the charger without the use of stirrups, although it had taken a bit of effort to do so, and pointed his sword at the soldier.
“I confiscate this horse in the name of King Richard,” he boomed loudly. “Go, man, and deliver my message.”
He spurred the animal in the direction of the fighting even as the soldier wobbled off at a dead run, bearing unbelievable news.
The Defender was returned.
*
As quickly as Christopher’s death had spread through the realm, the news of his resurrection spread even faster. John and Ralph were the first to hear of it, and they killed the messenger in their disbelief.
Safe and sound in Nottingham, away from the wrath of Richard for the moment, they were gravely concerned with the rumors that Christopher de Lohr was indeed alive.
Having Richard on the attack was threat enough, but if the Defender were indeed alive, then there was good reason to be terrified.
Between the king and his champion, surely there was no hope in retaining the keeps gained in warfare.
Christopher had single-handedly saved Rob’s camp that night.
Although substantial damage had been done, few lives were lost and John’s troops turned tail when they realized just who they were fighting against. It had taken them months to find this den of bandits and they were fully prepared to destroy it and capture Lord Robin of the Hood.
But when they saw Christopher de Lohr returned to battle like Lazarus arisen, superstition got the better of them and they retreated.
Christopher purposely fought with his helmet off so John’s men could witness his face and return with the news.
He had hoped that his presence would make John think twice before attacking these people again.
Rob and Jonathan were quite amazed to see him in battle.
They knew his reputation and assumed that he had not gained it by being a oaf, but to see him in action was a sight to behold.
He moved with such ease and grace that Rob was nearly nailed twice by enemy soldiers as he watched him fight, hypnotized.